


not good enough

by WritingToKeepMySanity



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, Gen, Sad, Sad sad sad, in which I foist my problems upon fictional characters who did nothing to deserve it, light cursing, not a lot but i'll tag it in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 03:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16077278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingToKeepMySanity/pseuds/WritingToKeepMySanity
Summary: the first step is admitting you're not okay.





	not good enough

If he had to pick the day his life went to shit, Crutchie’d have to say it was the day of the wreck.

It was just a normal drive into the city. Sunny day, cloudless sky. He’d been visiting Mayer and Esther on his rare day off.

Bobbing his head along with the song on the radio, Crutchie curled his right leg under the seat. Jack joked about him being a “south foot”, using his left foot to navigate the petals, but he’d never had perfect control over his right foot, as made evident by the crutch leaning against the floorboard on the passenger side.

A burst of static interrupted the song, and he glanced down at the radio, furrowing his brow a bit.

Looking up, Crutchie felt his eyes go wide at the sudden appearance of brake lights in front of him, and he slammed his foot on the left pedal.

Everything slowed down. He watched, disembodied, as his vehicle approached the one in front of him, sure he wouldn’t have time to stop. The sunlight flashed off something chrome, blinding him momentarily.

He wasn’t aware of the impact.

He didn’t feel the car skidding off to the side.

He—

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

His eyes cracked open, squinting blearily at the dim fluorescent lights.

He didn't remember getting into bed. The last thing Crutchie remembered was driving into the city… the radio cutting out… the—

A shooting pain flared in his foot, and he cried out weakly, the sound sticking in his dry throat. Curling his hand into a fist, he felt something catch on the scratchy blanket—which was also strange, he and Jack couldn’t afford the best, but their blankets weren’t itchy—and he lifted his arm to find the cause.

A plastic bracelet encircled his wrist. In bold letters, it read  _Morris, Charles A,_ with his birthdate and age underneath.

“What the hell—?” he rasped, looking around. It was nighttime, clearly several hours since he'd been driving.

He was—in the hospital? On his finger, there’s a clip connecting to the heart monitor, which beeped steadily next to him. Next to the monitor was a chair, where Jack was curled up in. His head was leaning on Kath’s shoulder, and it looked like they were both asleep.

“Jack?” He struggled to sit up. “Jack.” The beeping next to him picked up as he slipped, head hitting his pillow harder than he thought possible. “ _Jack_ ,” Crutchie said, the muddy-headedness slowly giving way to panic.

Jerking awake, Jack sat up, knocking shoulders with Katherine, who scrunched her nose as she, too, woke up.

Jack blinked, scrubbing a hand down his face before focusing on Crutchie. “Hey, kid! Ya awake!”

“Yeah, what’s goin’ on, Jackie? Where am I?” The anxiety bubbled inside of him as he struggled to sit up.

“Hey, hey,” Jack stood from his seat, only to sit on the edge of the bed. “Ya alright, kid. Hey, lookit me. Ya alright.”

“ _Where. Am. I?_ ” Crutchie asked through gritted teeth, balling his hands into tight fists.

"Whoa, okay kid, it's alright." Jack picked up the hand nearest to him, massaging the clenched muscles until Crutchie relaxed his hands, revealing red, crescent-shaped marks on his palm. “There… was an accident, Charlie.”

 _Charlie_? Shit, Jackie never used his real name unless it was serious. “Wh’kinda accident?”

“You don’t remember?” Katherine asked, sitting up, looking more awake now.

Crutchie shook his head, and Jack set down the hand he was holding. “Jus’ drivin’ in from Mayer and Esther’s place. The radio cut out a sec, an’—I woke up here. That’s it.”

“Well, from what the cops’ll tell us, someone rear-ended ya, goin’ too fast an’ ya went off inna ditch. Car rolled couple’a times, complet’ly totaled. But the doc says you’re gonna be fine,” he added quickly, shaking his shoulder with a grin. “Told ‘em they were crazy if they thought Crutchie Morris weren’t tougher’n some idiot who can't see brake lights.”

A wreck? Shit, that didn’t sound good—

He groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. “Aw, man, Kath, ‘m sorry, ya car—”

She waved a hand. “Please, Charlie, don’t worry about it at all. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Nodding, Crutchie let up on it for now, but still felt something settle like guilt in the pit of his stomach.

Jack turned back to him. “Ya feelin’ okay? Can I get’cha somethin’?”

Crutchie shrugged, suddenly feeling drained. “Yeah, m’foot hurts a little, ya think ya can get a doctor or somethin’?”

A funny look crossed Jack’s face and he glanced back at Katherine. “Ah, which foot, there, Crutch?”

He tried to wiggle said foot, his head so full of cotton he couldn’t remember what was left and what was right, but he couldn’t seem to make it move. “The—that one, next ta ya.”

That funny look hadn’t left Jack’s face. “I…”

“I’ll get the doctor. And start calling the guys,” Katherine said softly, standing up, gently squeezing Crutchie’s shoulder and leaving the room.

That was… weird. He turned to Jack again. “Jackie? What’s goin’ on?”

Dropping a warm hand onto Crutchie’s chilled arm, Jack swallowed hard. “There’s… somethin’ I gotta tell ya.”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

He had one bad foot before the wreck. Then he lost it. He traded in his one crutch for two elbow crutches.

And he hated it.

He hated the pain in his foot that was no longer there, the physical therapy he was forced to go to three times a week, the crutches that made his arms sore, and the pain medicine that made him spacey, not fully in his head.

Not that he wanted to be in his head.

What made it worse was when everyone was so _damn_ understanding.

He wanted them to razz him, tease him, stop acting like everything was different. It made his words sharper even as his voice grew duller. They started giving him a wide berth, careful not to overstep boundaries they thought were there and that just made him angrier, caused him to lash out more.

Jack got the brunt of it, living with him, but usually let Crutchie use him as his verbal punching bag.

Crutchie bit Davey’s head off when he bumped into his new crutches, and the poor guy actually _apologized_.

He fired some barb at Spot, somethin’ about him being too short to be any use to anyone, and, though he looked like he wanted to say somethin’ else, Spot just nodded. _Spot._

He’d always been a bit of a shithead—something Jack never failed to let him forget—but they always called him out on it. Now, they just gave him this… pitying look, like, he was a misbehaving child who didn’t know better.

It was a vicious cycle. They avoided him, he lashed out, they moved further away. Lather, rinse, repeat.

And it always ended with him alone.

Hopping into the bathroom, Crutchie lowered himself on the edge of the tub, leaning his crutches against the wall next to the shower, undressing a little awkwardly, and turning on the water before swinging himself onto the stool sitting in the tub.

The water hit his back and Crutchie flinched. He felt his heartbeat pick up, and he folded his arms across his chest. There was a tight knot in his chest, and something pricked at the backs of his eyes.

He leaned his head in his hands as the water ran. It’d been a long day, and those voices that mostly stayed in the back of his head were suddenly coming out, whispering at first, and then screaming.

_You’re just a little shit, Morris._

His harsh gasps echoed in the small shower.

_No one wants a sarcastic asshole with a bum leg._

He gripped his hair to feel anything other than his heaving chest.

_What’re ya even doin’ with ya life?_

He wasn’t sure if he was even crying—the only thing he _was_ sure of was not even the stinging hot water pounding his back could drown out the voices in his head. 

_They just pity ya._

_No one wants ta be ‘round ya._

_Normal people don’t use sarcasm ta deflect, dumbass._

_Or ta hurt their friends._

_If ya still have ‘em._

_Give ‘em time, they’ll see._

_They always do, don’t they?_

The water slapped against the tiles and Crutchie opened his eyes. 

As quickly as the voices had attacked him, they had retreated. 

He scraped his hair off his forehead, tilting his head so it was directly under the stream of water, letting it baptize him, fill his head with white noise.

Letting out a shuddering breath, sputtering off the water that had collected on his lips, Crutchie sighed and reached for the shampoo.

Crutchie hobbled slightly back into the living room, his hair darkened and wet, dripping onto his shoulders.

Jack looked up from his laptop. “Hey. Ya were in there awhile.”

He shrugged noncommittally, dropping onto the couch.

“Well… ya feel better, then?” Jack tried again.

Crutchie’s answer was curt, short, and not a hundred percent true. “Yeah.”

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

About a year after the wreck, Jack moved in with Kath, after double- and triple-checking with Crutchie that he was okay with the arrangement, could handle being on his own.

“‘M _fine_ ,” Crutchie’d insisted. He’d helped Jack pack up his stuff, been in charge of ordering pizza on moving day.

Moving day had been… normal. The guys came over and joked with him between trips out to Spot’s car and they’d teased Jack and Kath about being the old married couple and ate too much pizza.

It was easy.

 

*~*~*~*~*

 

But then, days were always easier.

Two years later, and he could distract himself during the day, between classes and work, but he didn’t go much further than that, choosing to sit around the apartment instead. And even then, mindless television and numbing social media gave him leave from his thoughts.

Nights, on the other hand, when the shadows lengthened and the darkness pressed down on him, were worse, with nothing to drown out the screaming voices in his head.

Crutchie pressed the heel of his palm to the spot right between his eyes, curling his hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm. Almost like he was trying to give a reason for the hot tears that spill from his eyes.

His face felt too warm, flushed, and he was lightheaded from the sharp, short breaths that tore from his tight throat, rushing out through clenched teeth. Tears tracked the lines of his face, dripping off his nose, soaking his pillow.

He didn’t even know why he was crying.

Drawing his legs to his chest as best he could, he could feel himself trembling, his hands shaking.

Pressing his fists to his eyes, he could see the starburst of colors splash across the backs of his eyelids.

_Why don’t I feel good enough?_

He’d tried asking God, wanted to ask Jack, ask Davey, ask Kath, ask _someone_ since he sure as hell didn’t have the answers.

But he would have to face them in the light of day tomorrow, pretend he was okay, pretend like it didn’t feel like everything was falling apart inside him.

He’d already gotten their attention too much with it, being quieter than normal, not as jokey, too slow with the comebacks.

He didn’t send the text.

But he still thought it.

_Why don’t I feel good enough?_

Not a good friend.

Not a good brother.

Not a good person.

Not.

Good.

Enough.

His tears slow as he considered that. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe he was good enough.

He tried telling himself he is, he is good enough, that the voices are liars, a wrecking ball to all the progress he’s finally made.

_You are good enough, Charlie. You. Are. Good. Enough._

But the words couldn’t seem to form, peeking their heads up just enough to be drowned out by a wave. It sounded like a song he desperately wanted to hear, but he just couldn't quite hear it.

He reached for the phone again.

He stopped again.

Who could he talk to?

Davey was still having trouble finding a job. Race hadn’t gotten a callback in months. Jack was still trying to get into art school. Kath wasn’t getting the chances she deserved at work.

And here he was, crying because the voices in his head were being  _mean_.

His friends didn’t need his shit, too.

As quickly as he’d stopped crying, he started up again.

He slid a hand in his hair, gripping, tethering himself to something real, something tangible. Not like the voice in his head that sounded too much like him, telling him he weren’t worth nothing.

He knew it wasn’t real.

But it was so _convincing._

_You’re. Not. Good. Enough._

Suddenly, anger bubbled up in his chest. Why was he listening to himself? If he’d realized anything over the last two years, it was he wasn’t exactly the voice of reason.

Growling through the tears and snot, Crutchie grabbed his phone. “Screw you, Morris. I don’t gotta _fuckin’_ listen ta ya.”

He wasn’t sure where the wave of—not confidence, but resolution, he supposed—came from, drowning out his own thoughts, but he rides it out, hastily swiping at his cheeks as he finds Jack’s contact, smacking the call button with his thumb.

_It’s three a.m., dumbass—_

_Shaddup, Jackie’s a light sleeper._

_Just because you call him—_

_He’ll pick up._

_He won’t come over—_

“At least he’ll answer the damn phone,” Crutchie said, too loudly in the quiet room.

 _“Crutch?”_ Jack’s rough voice answered. _“Ya okay, kid?”_

Clearing his throat, Crutchie gave Jack probably the most honest answer he had in almost two years.

“No.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even remember exactly when I wrote this, but I found it again for a WIP ask on tumblr and kinda liked it?? Some of it is based on true events, some of it isn't, and it's just been too long since I posted proper angst, so here we are, sad Crutchie who just needs a hug.
> 
> xx


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